Killing Me Softly
by Zea T
Summary: Escaping their old base, leaving their home behind, had been hard. Abandoning their hopes that the missing Ops mech would find his way back to them was harder still. (Story has previously appeared on my livejournal)
1. Killing Me Softly

This story has previously appeared on my LiveJournal account - the first two sections were originally written for the 2011 prowlxjazz anniversary challenge, and each section title (except the epilogue) is a prompt from Week 4 of that challenge.

Title: **Killing Me Softly**

Author: ZeaT  
Rating: T  
Verse: G1, pre-Earth  
Warnings: unbetaed, Jazz/Prowl, angst, intimacy (sparks, non-explicit) in section 5  
Summary: _Escaping their old base, leaving their home behind had been hard. Abandoning their hopes that the missing Ops mech would find his way back to them was harder still._

Disclaimer: The Transformers franchise belongs to Hasbro, and has been developed by them in a number of versions. This story is based in the original 1983 cartoon universe. Characters and settings are used without permission but without profit accruing to the author.

Comments and suggestions are very welcome!

* * *

**Killing Me Softly.**

No one programmed the Rec Room computer to play _that_ song at that particular moment.

They weren't even sure who'd selected the random playlist, or who programmed the music in the first place. Until that moment they'd been glad of it. There'd been nothing before, to distract them from the pain, the guilt and the anger. Without the music filling the emptiness, the room – Pit, the whole complex! – was too eerily quiet.

When the Autobots came to this new base, they'd come with sombre faces and dimmed optics. They'd left jokes and laughter and the familiar banter behind them… with Jazz.

They'd waited as long as they could. Even then, there'd been arguments. So many arguments. No one had been surprised when it fell to their base commander to counter each and every one of them. Prowl's vocalisor had remained steady, the tactician's expression never wavering as he repeated the basic facts time after time.

Their base was all but surrounded, the noose around it tightening.

Their position was untenable, retreat and regrouping their only rational option.

Their new base must be a secret one, the surviving Autobots too few and too spent to fight a perpetual, ongoing defence.

And, even ignoring the reported explosion, Jazz was more than a half a cycle overdue. He'd most likely deactivated decaorns before, or else was captive and compromised.

The rest of the unit had known it as well as Prowl himself. That didn't make the reality of their situation any easier, or the cold-sparked mech who forced them to face it any more popular. They'd followed his commands as they fought their way out of the old base, but not without anger and insubordination. Prowl had taken it stoically, not protesting his virtual shunning and not even reacting to the 'accidental' shoves and collisions he encountered during his rare sorties into the corridors of their new headquarters.

And that was as it should be, ran the general feeling. After all, Prowl should know this hadn't been easy. They'd been forced to abandon more than they brought with them. Leaving behind the slim hope that Jazz might yet find his way home had been hardest of all.

So no one would consciously have picked this song, out of all the Autobot's music archives, to play across a subdued Rec Room. And when it came up nonetheless, they listened, lost in memories of a broad grin and a glowing visor, of a familiar voice serenading the assembled mechs on that last night, of Jazz crooning these words with a joyful passion that gave no hint of his upcoming mission.

"Prowl?"

It was Ratchet who noticed the door-winged mech leaning against the entrance to the room, finally driven out of his office and into their presence by near-critical energon levels. The medic's voice was quiet, not intended to carry, but every Autobot present turned at the call. Every mech saw the expression on Prowl's faceplates, and the optic fluid that streaked his cheeks in that unguarded moment.

"Prowl?"

Sideswipe had been one of the tactician's greatest tormentors. He'd turned a cold shoulder on the mech, and gone further, determined to show Prowl what he'd inflicted on the Autobots under his command. Until that moment, he'd have sworn that Prowl was incapable of feeling their grief. He'd never have believed a mech cold-sparked enough to abandon a friend could understand so simple an emotion as pain. Now he stepped forward with one hand extended, unease filling his posture as it had his voice.

Dim blue optics flared bright, and then normalised. Just like that, the familiar blank façade they all knew so well returned. Prowl straightened and turned, door-wings tight to his back as he left without a word.

No one dared speak. No one moved save Ratchet, who followed their comrade from the room with an energon cube and a vented sigh.

Whether it was the strain of his neglected systems that caused Prowl's legendary control to slip, or whether it was the song, resonant with echoes of Jazz's laughter on the orn they'd seen him last, the anguish they'd glimpsed on their tactician's faceplates banished any doubt that the mech understood the nature of pain.

And when the song ended, and speech returned, they spoke not only of Jazz, but also of Prowl and the cues they'd never picked up on, the secret they'd never suspected. For the first time since Jazz was deemed lost, a sense of kinship stirred among them and a deep concern.

Deep inside, where they hadn't admitted it even to themselves, every Autobot knew that Jazz was most likely gone. They grieved for their friend. They mourned too for the compassion they'd always taken for granted, and yet had allowed to die with the mech who embodied it. Now a new resolve grew between them – a determination not to lose another mech, one they cared for more than they'd realised and understood less well than they thought.

The Autobots' world had changed, there in a too-quiet room, with the sound of music floating in the air. And they'd changed too, the moment they'd seen Prowl weeping softly, listening to Jazz's song and dying a little more inside with each loving word.


	2. Save Me, I'm Lost

**Save me, I'm lost**

This couldn't be happening.

Jazz walked the silent corridors in a numb daze. His irregular footfalls echoed back to him, the clatter of metal on metal far more jarring than the pain that accompanied each limping step.

That was old pain, damage the Decepticon medics considered too character building to heal cleanly or quickly.

The ache inside, the despair creeping over him with each passing sparkbeat – that pain was all too new.

It wasn't that Jazz blamed his friends for leaving. He knew better than most just how many resources the Decepticons had chosen to throw at this base – far more than even its officers had feared. It had been that realisation that drove him to break cover and blow the outpost he'd been infiltrating. Jazz had resigned himself there and then to never seeing his friends again. He'd only prayed that reports of the blast would give Prowl the warning he needed, and that taking the garrison out of the equation would leave the tactician opening enough to act upon it and get their mechs clear.

But it shouldn't hurt so much to find he'd done just that.

Jazz's tired pedes carried him into the Rec Room and a thin keen escaped his vocalisor. Well known shapes beckoned him onwards, the dim gleam of his headlamps picking a familiar mural out of the gloom.

And, with the sight, the memory of seeing it for the first time amidst a flurry of laughter and speculation.

Sunstreaker had never owned up to the floor-to-ceiling painting that appeared between one orn and the next, not then or in the many cycles that followed. The image of Golden Age Iacon had belonged to them all, becoming the backdrop to all their revelry – a colourful reminder of what they were fighting for. Now it was washed out in the dim light, the golden towers of Cybertron's capital tinged with sparkless grey.

Jazz gazed at it, heedless of passing time. His optics picked out the portraits of familiar mechs – some of them no larger than the tip of his finger servo – that Sunstreaker had scattered through his fantasy. All were cast into shadow, the softness and light the mural once held gone with the Autobots who'd brought it alive.

"Ah, mah mechs." His murmured lament echoed back to him from every surface in the cavernous space – from barren walls and metal chairs, burnished by the afts of who-knew-how-many mechs. All gone now.

He turned and walked from the Rec Room, pushing down the memories with the same practiced ease with which he overrode the error messages from his damaged knee-joint. After near a cycle of being forced through the strain of training exercises, his self-repair had stopped even trying to heal the injury.

Surviving the explosion had been an unlooked-for blessing. He vaguely recalled staggering from the garrison complex, leaking energon as he went and dragging his left leg behind him, before collapsing amidst the few other survivors. He'd never expected to online again. Waking in a Decepticon boot camp, taken not for a saboteur but rather for an incompetent in need of remedial training – well, even his famously flexible processor had come close to snapping.

With over three hundred sparks wiped out by 'an accidental misfire' in the arsenal, the local commanders couldn't afford to offline a single one of their surviving soldiers. That didn't stop them making an example of the weapons division's four survivors. The remedial camp had been a prison in all but name, escape impossible.

Physical escape, anyway. Jazz shuddered, remembering the comrades – never friends – who'd taken another way out, their grey shells tossed over the fence and left to act both as warning and cruel temptation. He couldn't deny the idea of following their example had power, even over the strong-willed saboteur.

The Decepticon training sergeants hadn't been gentle.

He limped onwards, memories of his life here overlaid by others, newer and burned into his processor by fire and pain. He'd buried himself in the persona he'd adopted, taking the sergeants' blows with the bravado and poorly-hidden fear of a Decepticon nobody. He hadn't let himself think about the Autobots he'd acted to save, or dream of returning to them. It was only in the darkest nights, when recharge was at its most elusive, that Jazz allowed himself a wry amusement at his predicament. Even now he was uncertain whether to be thankful for the Decepticon's mistake, or insulted by it. It was clear the 'cons considered infiltration of their destroyed garrison so far beyond the Autobots' skills that the mere possibility of it hadn't occurred to them.

He'd taught them better. If the half-dozen greyed frames Jazz left behind at his new assignment hadn't clued them in, silence from the three guards here would do so.

Three. All the hundreds of mechs who'd encircled the place a cycle before, and he'd found just three disposable grunts, guarding the miles of shadowed corridor and the empty shell of a base he'd once called home. The irony of it amused him, and he knew it would please Prowl too. The tactician had chosen this base to be as unstrategic and unthreatening as possible, and it had worked, giving them a haven for vorns, until the mere presence of Autobots lent the place a significance it would never otherwise have had.

Jazz paused, struck by the realisation that his aimless wandering had taken him deeper into the complex – treading a familiar path to the residential corridor reserved for officers. He stopped, fingertips caressing one door in particular, his optics hard as he studied its broken lock. Steeling himself, he palmed it open, and the air left his vents in a gasp when he saw what lay beyond.

Chaos reigned in a room that had once been the exemplar of order. The berth had been slashed with blades, furniture overturned, heavy bookfiles scattered across the floor. The wrongness tore at him, a choked cry torn from his vocalisor. It was as if not only the presence but the very spark of its former owner had been eradicated.

It was almost enough to break Jazz, to let loose the keens of despair building within him. Everywhere he'd gone in the complex, he'd seen evidence for an urgent but orderly withdrawal. Anything non-essential had been discarded, precious resources left behind rather than taken to weight the Autobots' down as they broke free of the siege. Now, with his optics picking out one after another of Prowl's precious bookfiles amidst the wreckage, a chill gripped Jazz's spark and he wondered if the Autobots' flight had been more urgent and desperate than he'd thought.

As practical as Prowl could be, would he truly have abandoned so many of his belongings, if he'd had time to plan the escape and health to enact it?

Jazz had accepted he was unlikely to see his friends again. He hadn't asked Prowl about their fall-back plans. As frequently as Jazz moved amongst the Decepticons, he knew the tactician wouldn't have been able to answer if he had. Now he paid the price for that ignorance. With the Autobots regrouping and sorties from the new base likely to be rare and secretive, it could be cycles or whole vorns before even he figured out their location. He had no illusion about his own ability to survive that long, alone and already injured.

Even so, he'd not doubted that Prowl had led his friends to safety. Now that doubt crept in. Jazz fell to his knees, arms wrapped around his chest-plates and processor numb, as he considered the alternative.

It was pain in his left leg that finally broke through the pain in his spark, the brutal practicalities of his existence leaving little room for finer feelings. He shifted, trying to straighten the leg out to one side, and as he did so, his visor rose, sweeping a berth-room he'd known as well as his own.

Jazz froze, his head tilted to one side, processor suddenly working with lightning speed. His visor brightened, gaze no longer roaming the destruction aimlessly but instead searching, looking from the gap where a well known painting should hang, to the shelves behind him, and then scanning the floor for the few books and very specific mementoes he knew Prowl valued most.

Hope swelling in his spark, Jazz stood. There was a new purpose in his step as he left Prowl's room behind him and crossed the corridor to his own. This lock hadn't been broken so much as simply ceased to be. A grim smile formed on the saboteur's lip-plates as he studied the wide spread of charring and warped metal that suggested his door too had been forced – with somewhat more explosive results.

He put his shoulder to the twisted door, forcing it to swing clear of the frame, and was unsurprised to find the same mindless destruction that marred Prowl's room reflected in his space too. Already though, his processor was picking out the things that _weren't_ there amidst the debris, as well as those that were. His instruments were gone, neither on his shelves, nor ruined at their feet. Music disks scattered the floor but a single glance was enough to tell him they comprised perhaps half his collection. A second look and he was sure – the missing disks weren't random, but rather the tracks he'd listened to most frequently or with greatest emotion, or those he'd searched for hardest and raved about into tolerant audios. The small gallery of image captures were gone from his berth-side table. His prized oils and polishes, his spare visor and the toolset he kept with it… all were missing from the debris that littered the floor.

Trembling, Jazz shifted the bed aside, hauling on the ruined metal frame with scant care for its jagged edges. A brush of finger-servos, a silent command, and the shelves behind swung forward, the bulky unit counterweighted and oiled to move silently.

The space behind was all but bare. At first he thought the impossible – that this, his sensor-shielded and spark-encoded vault, had been found and raided too. But no Decepticon would leave the two sweet weapons still hanging on their hooks behind, and Jazz had no illusion that the personal items he'd stored here – his last precious reminders of friends and family long gone – would hold any value for a Decepticon thief. They'd lie scattered and broken on the floor, the vault itself left open rather than resealed.

Instead they were gone, only one image capture left on the shelf to brighten the bare metal and reflect the dim gleam of weaponry. The frame was familiar, the image was not.

Ghosting forward, Jazz reached for it, turning it into his headlights and studying it with a sense of bemusement. The laughter that rippled through him grew, a note to it that was near-hysterical, another edge that was sheer disbelief.

Where he'd expected to find a picture of the one other mech authorised for this safe – the only mech who knew Jazz's music as well as the saboteur himself, and who would sacrifice his own book collection to carry Jazz's treasures to safety – instead there was an image of a familiar crystal outcrop, and the memory of a long ago picnic under Cybertron's ever-dark skies.

The outcrop had been natural, beautiful in its rugged irregularity, and almost half an orn's drive from the base. Jazz would have been content simply to relax, soaking in the crystals' vibration. Prowl didn't know the meaning of relaxation. An impromptu lecture had flowed out of him, and Jazz had absorbed it, marvelling to realise there were few mechs left who knew as much about crystal gardens, natural or otherwise, as the Autobot tactician. He'd certainly be willing to bet that no Decepticon knew the secret of coaxing a crystal growth open, to reveal the hollow core and the secrets hidden within by generations of courting Praxians.

A broad grin spread across Jazz's face.

He'd need to search out the guards' energon supply and scour the base for anything else he could use. First though, he lifted down the blaster and rifle left for him, smiling as the familiar grips slid into his palms. And then he turned back, first to Prowl's room and then his own, collecting up what Prowl couldn't carry and the Decepticons had left intact, taking his share of the weight.

He didn't doubt that this was just the first step of a longer and far-from-simple trail. Even so he set out with a new fire in his spark and a grin on his lips, knowing the prize waiting at journey's end was worth any trial.


	3. Dark of Night

**Dark of night**

His office was quiet… empty. Just as he liked it.

Only one mech had ever been welcome here. Jazz brought colour and laughter that he'd never dreamed of into Prowl's grey existence. Now silence had returned. Not even his spark could cling to the belief it might yet be broken. His processor had abandoned hope of the same long before.

Prowl cycled down his optics, wondering how long it would be before every thought and every action stopped reminding him of the mech he'd lost. He wasn't sure it would ever happen, or that he'd want to live through the day it did.

Drawing in a sharp vent, he forced his optics back online and focused on the report he was preparing for dispatch to Optimus Prime and the Iacon base. His energy reserves were low, but holding. The continuous error reports he'd not mentioned to Ratchet yet – the ones that warned him of slowing reactions and increasing lethargy – were stable. There was a seventy-two percent probability that a joor or more would elapse before any of the unit came looking for him, or attempted to force him into refuel and recharge. That was good. He welcomed the respite.

No one else could come close to filling the hole Jazz left in Prowl's world. On the whole he'd rather they didn't try.

"Prowl?"

He knew he was worrying the Autobots under his command.

"Prowl!"

He just couldn't bring himself to care.

The tactician registered the call and looked up from his paperwork with reluctance. His optics shifted focus sluggishly, door-wings not even twitching from their slump against his back.

A scowl had decorated Ratchet's face-plates when he stalked through the office door. It faded. Now, not only the medic but also the pair of wayward twin front-liners trailing behind him gazed at their unit commander with more concern than irritation in their expressions.

Prowl drew in a calming intake through his vents, sending a 'pause' command to his tactical algorithms. Multitasking seemed to be growing more difficult with each passing orn, and something told him this matter would require his full concentration.

"Report," he ordered, voice soft.

Ratchet frowned, his vocalisor whirring for a few klicks before he pushed aside whatever else he had to say in favour of shooting Sideswipe a glare.

"This pit-spawn – "

"I didn't do it!"

"And you just happened to be right there – "

"It's not like I was the only one standing around laughing."

"Who else would paint the – ?"

"Prove it!"

Prowl sighed. He knew better than to look for clues from Sideswipe. The red-clad warrior was far too skilled at dissembling, and sufficiently convinced of his pranks' innocence not to be troubled by tell-tale guilt. Instead he let his tired gaze rest on Sunstreaker, catching the yellow twin's optics and tuning out the ongoing and uninformative bickering.

"Anything to say?"

Sunstreaker scowled back at him, his gaze steady, but his irritation with Sideswipe obvious in the subtle way he half-turned from his twin. There was still a slim chance that Sideswipe was innocent and Sunstreaker's frustration unrelated, but if that were the case, Prowl knew from experience, the yellow warrior would likely be showing more aggression towards Ratchet and Prowl himself rather than his brother.

"Enough!" Prowl put enough snap in his voice to cut across Ratchet and Sideswipe, silencing both mechs. He held up a hand to still any renewed protest. "Ratchet, was anyone injured or prevented from completing their duties?"

"No, but…"

He didn't need the details and didn't have to ask whether there was evidence. If there had been, not even Sideswipe would be so vociferous in his own defence. On the other hand, Ratchet had to be fairly sure of his ground to bring this to Prowl's attention.

"Very well. Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, you will stand to attention in the corridor outside this office until the end of the orn. I wish you to contemplate the actions that have led to you becoming the prime suspects in incidents of this kind, and the wisdom of confessing to any residual guilt before proof and punishment bring your actions home to you regardless."

Sideswipe stared for a moment, astonished by such a light punishment. He opened his mouth to speak and Prowl's raised hand shifted to point firmly towards the doorway. Sunstreaker moved at once, reaching out to snag his brother's arm. For once neither twin argued. Both mechs threw a worried glance back at their commander as they left the room, and Prowl felt a glimmer of amusement, contemplating the possibility that such 'kindness' might actually prove more unnerving to their resident pranksters than the usual brig time.

Not that any punishment – gentle or otherwise – had ever discouraged Jazz from his efforts in that area.

Prowl's vents hitched at the thought and he slumped in his chair, even the slight amusement he'd felt vanishing into the same hollow void that drained his every emotion.

The sound of another mech shifting startled him. The tactician jerked a little straighter in his seat, surprised to realise Ratchet hadn't left with the twins, and angry that he'd not even noticed. He reached for the datapad in front of him, eager for any distraction from the conversation he knew was coming.

"Was there something else, Ratchet?"

The medic harrumphed, his bright optics scanning the weary tactician up and down.

"You let them off lightly."

"You failed to produce evidence of Sideswipe's guilt, or even a specific allegation against Sunstreaker."

The worried frown was back on Ratchet's face as the medic stifled a sigh, coming forward to lean against the desk in a manner Prowl found spark-achingly familiar.

"And…? Don't tell me that's it, Prowl. That damn processor of yours is far too complex to jump to conclusions with so little data."

Prowl didn't lift his eyes from the datapad, unable to meet Ratchet's knowing gaze.

"And… I am aware that morale in the base is significantly below desirable levels. As long as Sideswipe's pranks cause more amusement than harm, I see little benefit in his incarceration."

This time Ratchet didn't try to hide his sigh.

"Slag it, Prowl." His soft tone was in sharp contrast to the harsh words. "'Below desirable levels'. What do you expect when every mech in this unit can see that their commander's just plain given up?"

That dragged Prowl's helm up, not in surprise but dull dismay.

"I am performing my duties to the best of my – "

"No one would question that, Prowl." Ratchet threw up his arms, his frustration obvious as he tried to put the intangible into words. "But the mechs don't just need someone to make sure the duty rosters are filled and the washracks cleaned. It takes more than that to keep a spark burning bright." The tall white medic shook his head, optics studying his commander. "It's not just about planning or battle tactics either. The mechs don't just need someone to tell them what to do. They need someone to tell them why – that there's a point to all this." He sighed, pacing a few steps before turning back to fix his friend with grave optics. "Pit, Prowl, there's not a one of us that hasn't lost people in this slagging war. This unit needs someone to convince them that it's worth the cost. To remind them this is a dream worth hanging onto and there's something left worth living for."

Prowl's optics stayed locked with Ratchet's, their blue depths devoid of any readable emotion. When he spoke, his words were slow and serious.

"Then, Ratchet, I am sorry that I must ask you and our other officers to take on such a burden."

Ratchet's vents faltered. As long as he'd known both Jazz and Prowl, and for all their secrecy, Ratchet had been far from surprised when Prowl's grief proved deeper than anyone else suspected. The medic had made a point of badgering the tactician to recharge and refuel almost since Jazz left on his infiltration mission, and all the more so since that mission went catastrophically wrong.

Nonetheless, Prowl knew, the bleak despair in his voice came as a shock.

"I cannot espouse a belief I no longer hold."

Prowl looked away, his optics returning to his datapad for lack of a better target. Ratchet had probably intended his words as a push in the right direction. Most likely, he'd hoped to shake Prowl out of his introspection and remind the tactician that life went on. From the expression on his face now, it hadn't occurred to him that might be a cause for regret.

"Prowl…"

"Calm yourself, Ratchet. I have no intention of leaping in front of a Decepticon rifle… or my own."

"And what would Jazz say if he knew you'd even considered that as an option?"

The words struck hard. Prowl's door-wings flicked outwards for the first time since Ratchet entered the room. He let them fall back, too tired to hold them up. Guilt churned within him, the echo of a familiar voice all too quick with the answer to Ratchet's question. He forced it down, to join the vast well of like emotion that had filled him for more than a cycle.

"Jazz would expect me to work diligently to re-establish an Autobot presence in the sector, and preserve our remaining forces."

The knowledge was all Prowl had left. His reasons for joining this conflict had been wiped away with long-gone Praxus and he loathed the Decepticons for that, but he was neither naïve nor sheltered enough to hold either side in this war entirely blameless. He was no longer certain the battles would ever end, or that there was a place for him in any world that followed. Jazz's confidence and hope rather than his own had kept him fighting this war, and now all he could do was cling to their echoes.

He didn't need Ratchet to tell him it might not be enough. That wouldn't stop the medic trying. The tall white mech leaned forward, his voice serious.

"Throwing yourself into your work… It's not a solution, Prowl. I can keep you fuelled, force you to recharge even. But you're not a machine. It takes more than mindless routine to persuade a spark that the burden of a frame is worthwhile. A mech doesn't have to be bonded to fade out from despair."

"Then I shall fade," he said it without regret, and saw all the emotion he couldn't feel on Ratchet's face, "doing what I must." He laid down the datapad, abandoning pretence of work. "But I can't lie to myself any longer. I have been clinging to a hopeless dream for a full cycle. That's too long, Ratchet. I… I am afraid I must now accept that it has failed…"

And it was then, as Ratchet searched for words and Prowl's spark strained in his chest, that an impossible, highly-encrypted and much longed for com-ping ricocheted through his sensor grid.


	4. A Dream Worth Keeping

**A Dream worth Keeping**

"Sunstreaker! Sideswipe! Arm yourselves and come with me."

The twin warriors jolted out of their slump against the wall, jumping first to the attention they'd been told to maintain and then into a more confused, battle-ready wariness.

"Prowl, slag it! Stop and talk to me!" Ratchet hurried out of the office behind him. The medic wasn't even trying to hide his alarm. Given that Prowl had just frozen mid-sentence, struggling with the divide between reality and fantasy for several klicks, before striding from the room and barking out his order, the medic had genuine cause for concern. Prowl didn't have time to obey his demand. Even so, he paused, considering. The medic was significantly slower than either the tactician or the twin front-liners. Even so… Ratchet might be needed.

"Ratchet, are you supplied and fuelled for a four-joor journey?"

"Yes, but…" A white hand on Prowl's arm jerked him to a halt mid-step. He looked back, door-wings flicking in irritation, and broke the hold fast enough to earn a surprised whistle from Sideswipe. Ratchet threw up his arms in disgust. "Prowl, you're not!"

It was true. Prowl's spark pulsed brighter than it had for decaorns, its gradual withdrawal from his frame halted and even reversed by the violent emotions surging through him. Even so, he was chronically underfuelled and urgent error reports were multiplying with every step.

He dismissed them unread. Without breaking stride, he reached into his subspace for one of the many energon cubes Ratchet had pressed on the disinterested mech, and which he'd secreted away lest he face the medic's wrath. He'd drained the first cube and taken out a second by the time they reached the main ramp leading out of the base. The guards there looked anxiously from the confused twins to the irate medic, and then to the commander all three mechs trailed behind.

"Prowl, I need you to come to medbay…"

Ratchet's words fell on deaf audios.

"Open the hatch!"

No one had heard that edge of command in Prowl's voice since the unit evacuated here. No one had seen him look so determined either, fists clenched at his side, door-wings flaring behind him and conviction filling every circuit. The hatch opened, spilling the dust accumulated behind it across the floor. Prowl lost no time, his hover-jets leaving a choking cloud in his wake, and was only vaguely aware of Ratchet transforming to chase him. The twins followed suit, folding into their sporty alt-modes and setting off in pursuit, uncertain whether they were meant to be bringing their commander back or providing him with the armed support he'd asked for.

Prowl set the pace. The fresh energon burned through his systems, giving him a light processor and forcing him to concentrate lest he exceed Ratchet's maximum speed and chase into the distance as his spark demanded. The medic let loose a constant torrent of profanity, putting in a burst of acceleration from time to time and swearing more dramatically still when Prowl matched each one, straining the medic's engine for brief intervals rather than allowing himself to be caught. The twins were less easily handled. He wasn't surprised when they drew even with him, and only registered a slight bemusement when they flanked him as bodyguards rather than forcing him to a halt.

'_What are we getting ourselves into, Prowl?'_

Sunstreaker's com signal cut calmly across Ratchet's continued yells and the howl of displaced air. It was a fair question. One deserving of an answer.

'_Approximately five breems ago, I received a medium range, wide-broadcast location query on a coded Autobot channel.'_

Ratchet's curses fell silent. The medic hesitated, relieved that Prowl was finally speaking to them and confused by the explanation in equal measure.

'_Why didn't you just tell me that, you glitch?'_

'_And why do we need to be armed?' _Sideswipe added, the prospect of battle putting an unusually serious note in the red twin's com-voice.

'_The channel in question is outdated, and I would expect any messenger from Iacon to be given specific instructions on reaching our base rather than a general location. There is a not-insignificant probability that this is a Decepticon attempt to draw us out, or a ploy to locate us, based on information obtained from an Autobot captive.'_

'_Frag.'_ Sunstreaker's voice was flat with dismay. _'You've got us driving into an ambush?'_

'_Unlikely. I responded with a location two joors journey from base, and almost three from the estimated location of the querent. We will be in position well before…'_

'_Why the frag are _we_ out here?'_ Ratchet's patience snapped. _'You could have sent a patrol. A combat unit even! Prowl, you're not in any state – '_

For once in his existence, Prowl felt like screaming in sheer frustration. He longed to accelerate, to leave the infuriating medic in his wake. Two things stopped him – the knowledge that he'd have to send the twins back with Ratchet as protection, and the terrifyingly high probability that the medic's skills would be needed.

'_Certain matters require my personal attention, Ratchet. This is one of them.'_

It was all he'd say. Neither Ratchet nor the twins could prise another word out of him, and Prowl left the three of them to respond to the queries from their base. If the ragged tatters of his dreams survived this meeting, every mech in the unit would understand. If they didn't, Prowl would be beyond explanations or any care for his role as their commander.

The arguments petered out as the rendezvous approached. Ratchet stopped trying to convince Prowl to turn back and instead pulled in close on his tail. From time to time the tingle of his medical sensors played over Prowl's door-wings. The tactician didn't even try to protest. His systems were running hot, more from the turbulent emotions churning through his processor than their long neglect.

He was almost as relieved as the medic when they reached the designated coordinates, and more than willing to rest and refuel while the twins scouted their surroundings. Then all he could do was wait… and wait… and wait.

* * *

"No one's coming." Sideswipe gave voice to everyone's thought. His optics ranged their surroundings in a constant watch, making sure to scan the skies as well as the ground, but more and more often now, they came back to rest on Prowl. Whatever impulse had driven the tactician this far seemed to have drained away as the joors dragged out. His optics had dimmed, and he leaned against a rock outcrop, his posture one of utter defeat. Sideswipe glanced at his brother and at Ratchet, speaking more to them than to his less-than-stable commander. "We ought to be heading – "

"Wait!" Prowl's door-wings snapped upright, waving slightly as they triangulated on whatever he'd sensed. A moment later, the rest of them heard it too – the throb of a powerful engine, but one in urgent need of cleaning and maintenance.

Its owner came into view within a breem. A single ground vehicle, so battered and dented that its original form was scarcely discernable. Drab brown paint flaked off it, the nanite-tinted metal underneath scratched and equally dull with neglect. Whatever catastrophe the mech had survived, a patchwork of crude repairs covered his frame, as if whoever pieced him back together had resented every component wasted upon him. Even in hover-car mode, his left rear quarter hung too close to the ground, the mech making laborious progress across the rough terrain.

"Ratch, Prowl, take cover!"

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe separated, each moving to one side, weapons primed. Ratchet followed their advice, squatting down behind the rock outcrop they'd selected. Prowl did not. He stood tall, almost vibrating with an emotion the others couldn't quite work out as the strange vehicle approached.

Sideswipe swore, covering the newcomer with his weapons but all too aware that if the mech meant them harm, Prowl was making himself an impossible target to miss.

"Stop." Prowl's voice held the same authority he'd used on the guards, and the approaching mech obeyed without question, transforming awkwardly. The visored mech was as battered in root mode as his alt-shell suggested, his helm misshapen and that ugly brown paint obscuring any markings he might once have had – faction or otherwise. His visor was opaque and white, the optics behind hidden from view. He swayed, staggered as his weight hit his left pede and collapsed with that leg beneath him. Weary determination was written through his body language as he pushed silently back to his feet.

Prowl stepped forward, arms extended to help. A hiss from Ratchet stopped him, and for a few seconds conflict played across the commander's face before he captured the other mech with his optics.

"Are you alone?" he asked sharply, demanding the truth.

"You've got my word."

Sideswipe frowned. There was something familiar about the voice, although he'd swear he'd never heard those hoarse and gravelly tones before. Prowl gave a nod, his expression as blank and unreadable as the twins had ever seen it. Neither he nor the other mech moved a servo, their gazes still locked.

"How did you find us?"

This time the other mech gave a bark of laughter. He shook his head, not breaking contact with Prowl's blue optics.

"You should know, Prowl. You set one Pit of a cryptic treasure hunt."

Prowl flinched, glancing momentarily at his companions. "An indefensible risk on my part."

A dismissive wave of the hand dragged all eyes back to the newcomer, both twins tightening their grips on their weapons as the movement startled them. The mech raised both hands, very slowly. "Weren't no one but me going to follow that trail, and you know it."

Prowl didn't dignify that with an answer. He stood rigid, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "And your purpose in seeking us out after so long?"

It had to be the strangest interrogation either Ratchet or the Twins had ever seen. It was as if Prowl believed the other incapable of lying to him, and something in the intensity of the look that passed between them half-convinced the watching mechs that he was right.

"I'm coming home." A grin spread across the strange mech's face then, broad and relieved and full of joy. His posture changed, pain still there but tension draining away. There was an audible click, the mech's hand coming up to rub his throat as his vocalisor reset. His grin faded into a smirk and he tilted his head, adjusting a visor just starting to flush with blue. "Miss me, Prowler?"

Ratchet's vents stuttered. The twins gasped aloud, their weapons falling away as they stared, optics bright. Prowl didn't hesitate.

The tactician strode forward, doorwings held high. He reached out to tilt the mech's head back, servos gentle but firm, before capturing his lip-plates in a deep and desperate kiss.

"Hmm," Jazz sighed, pulling away just long enough to throw the others a quick glance before leaning back in, murmuring against his lover's lips. "I'm gonna take that as a yes."

Sunstreaker was shifting restlessly when the two broke their clinch, vents working hard. He gave them a look that mingled disbelief with embarrassment. Sideswipe's vocalisor spat static, the young warrior turning to Ratchet to make sense of the impossible scene. Ratchet just laughed, the sound full of amazed relief.

Prowl echoed him, voice softer and warmer as he slipped a hand around Jazz's waist, taking his weight.

"Come on," was all he said. "Let's get you home."


	5. Can You Feel the Love Tonight?

Additional Warning: This chapter skirts at the strong end of being a T - intimate, but not explicit, contact between two mechs, without human gender connotations. Feel free to skip it if this makes you uneasy

* * *

**Can you feel the love tonight?**

Heat rippled between them. Finger servos explored with frantic urgency, searching out familiar transformation seams and sensor nodes. Hot mouths followed. Gentle denta teased before the warm pressure of lip-plates sent fire through their systems, losing them in a haze of sensation.

They couldn't have said which of them was first to reach for a deeper connection. Wordless pulses of current surged through connected cables, reflecting from one mech to the other and back again in a cascading feedback loop that overwhelmed mere physical impressions.

Need drove them more than passion, neither quite able to believe they were reunited after so long, both desperate to feel the reality of it in every facet of their spark. Neither was strong; the long ordeal had taken its toll. Under Prowl's gentle caresses, Jazz's frame ached, free of serious damage for the first time in more than a cycle but still working on the final stages of self repair. Even as his door-wings fluttered, Prowl's frame felt heavy, self-neglect and long decaorns of despair leaving his spark weakened and strained. Small wonder that the first overload hit them hard.

It might have been breems or joors before Jazz onlined to feel a warm frame pressed against his. Prowl stirred, a jolt of fear and uncertainty arcing through their hardline connection a moment before cerulean optics blazed into life. Jazz's spark lurched and he leaned forward to lay his lips against each optic in turn, kissing away Prowl's terror and driving any doubt that this was real from his lover's processor.

"Jazz…" Prowl's murmur faded into nothing, silenced as Jazz's lips met his in a tender kiss that rendered words unnecessary.

Their love-making was slower this time, gentler. The desperation had passed, but need remained. They explored one another's frames, no longer in fear that the other would disappear, but instead with the gentle tenderness of lovers parted for far too long. Every inch of plating was explored, each new dent and scratch caressed and committed to memory, bound into the intimate knowledge they shared with one another and no one else. Passion was there as ever between them, heating their frames and drawing low cries of pleasure from each, but they'd never been so aware of the deep love that underlay it. They worshipped one another with their bodies, their processors exchanging confessions of love and an intensity of devotion far beyond words.

The second overload, when it came, seemed to go on forever. They revelled in one another's adoration, nothing existing beyond the circle of their arms, their pleasure echoing and rebounding and prolonging the moment.

Again it was Prowl who jolted from his afterglow first, no longer doubting the reality of his lover, but reaching out to draw him close nonetheless. Jazz snuggled closer, arm thrown across Prowl's chestplates as their frames curled into one another. The Praxian's anxiety was a constant in the back of the saboteur's mind. Packets of memories, of fears and tactical projections spilled over into the hardlines that still linked them, despite Prowl's best efforts to silence his too-active processor.

Jazz sighed, servos stroking Prowl's helm. It hurt to see what his failure to return had done to his love. He could see now what Ratchet had been trying to tell him in the few moments they'd been alone, and why the twins had scolded him… not for taking up with Prowl but rather for not warning them to keep an optic on the tactician. Jazz had been too lost in the novelty of curling up in his lover's arms without fear of revelation. He had seen the anxious looks thrown Prowl's way as they passed through the base – as frequent as the looks of disbelief cast in his own direction – and felt the fine trembling in the strong frame that held him. He hadn't truly processed them before now.

"I'm here," Jazz whispered into the nearest audio. He pulsed feelings through their hardline to accompany the words, bombarding Prowl's system with the evidence of his affection. "I love you. I've got you. I'm here for you."

He meant the sentiment as reassurance. He wasn't ready for the vast swell of guilt and grief that rose in response to the counter-thought – the spectre of 'not here', of 'gone', that haunted his lover still. A soft keen escaped him, the depths of Prowl's despair rippling through his circuits. He knew, with an instinct beyond words, that he needed to feel it deeper still.

His chest-plates parted slowly, his strained systems sending a throb of pain through his frame before the lingering pleasure of Prowl's caresses washed it away. It took a moment for his lover to realise what had happened, the Praxian's optics dilating in the soft golden light. Jazz met those optics and held them with his visor. He leaned in to capture his mate's lips and stifle the sob that accompanied the parting of Prowl's armour.

"Jazz…" The murmur broke off into a cry and Jazz found himself echoing it, back arched and neck-cables taught with pain but never loosening his hold on his love, or releasing the contact between them.

It hurt, there was no denying that. Both were tense, their processors too bound up in all that had happened to give themselves up completely, even in the lesser hardline-interface. This, the most intimate contact of all they were, left them nowhere to hide and no margin for disunity. Prowl's deep and jagged guilt – for placing Jazz in harm's way, for going on without him… for killing him – scored wounds into Jazz's spark. It broke the walls around his own abiding remorse and this time it was Jazz's subconscious that lashed out, engulfing them both in flame. With the clarity of spark-deep memory, Prowl relived the explosion through his eyes, witnessing the carnage in the aftermath – the hundreds of Decepticon gun-fodder who Jazz had sacrificed to give his friends a chance.

Lost in memories and the agony of armour melting to his frame, Jazz couldn't stop his thoughts straying further, letting Prowl see his long ordeal at the training camp, and the self-reproach he felt at his failure to escape. He felt Prowl respond, easing his guilt with an understanding of necessity, but at the same time reflecting back memories of long, lonely orns and a tirade of abuse he'd made no attempt to defend against.

They worked through the morass of emotion that both bound and separated them, sparks growing closer to resonance with each brushing pass. With no secrets behind them, no filters or masks to hide behind, Jazz felt every moment of Prowl's grief and the growing conviction in him that a world in which Jazz was gone held nothing left worth living for. Their gradual union faltered, Jazz unable to hide his horror and total rejection of his lover's despair. With infinite care, he showed Prowl the faith that kept him going day by day, the confidence he had in the fundamental goodness of all their kind, and the belief that one day this war would end and their sacrifices would yield a better future for them all. But even as he shared his determination, even as he let Prowl see the hope that he would fight for until his spark extinguished and which he truly believed presaged better times to come, he flashed back on a long moment in a ruined base when he'd feared for the mech in his arms. Just for that moment, his agony had mirrored Prowl's utter despair perfectly. He couldn't pretend otherwise, and he didn't try to.

Their sparks plunged into one another, sharing the dedication that had kept both alive against the odds, the knowledge of what must be done, the strength to do it and mutual acceptance of the consequences. Sparks entwined, the certainty born of Jazz now threaded through both their souls. There was no longer doubt that a bright future existed – there for them to fight for and worth the cost. And no doubt that as much as they craved that future, for each other and all the mechs they cared for, neither wanted any part of a world where they faced it alone.

As they woke, systems cycling sluggishly, aware simultaneously of weakness and a strength they'd never known, Jazz returned his bondmate's tight embrace and laughed, delighting in the shared knowledge that they'd never be alone again.


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

No one programmed the Rec Room computer to play _that_ song at that particular moment.

They weren't even sure even who'd selected the random playlist, or who programmed the music in the first place. Until the first notes floated across them no one had noticed it. The rec room's bustle spilled out into the corridors of the base, laughter and conversation drowning the background music… until the song brought with it a flood of memories and an eerie quiet. Other, darker corridors floated in front of their optics: a mural cast into shadow like the once-great city it represented, a base abandoned, and too many echoes of the fear and grief that had almost claimed their sparks.

For long klicks, the Autobots gazed into nowhere with sombre faces and dimmed optics. Without even thinking, most turned, their gazes drawn by the unaccustomed tremor in a pair of raised door-wings.

Slender black finger-servos brushed white servo-tips across a table surface. They reached up, trailing along the top edge of a door-wing, as their owner stood. Prowl's door-wings flared, pressing up into the touch, straining after it as it retreated. His helm tilted back, optics locking onto visor with a look more intense, more private, than any the Autobots had seen since the day the pair returned to them.

Mechs flinched, knowing they should look away, unable to do so. They froze, captured by anguish writ clear, a shared expression that spoke of two sparks pushed almost to their limits, and the sacrifices made on behalf of every mech watching and countless others.

The moment passed. Jazz moved smoothly, the last awkwardness gone now as his new knee assembly integrated. His frame swayed, his thigh speakers throbbing as they picked up the rhythm. His rich voice rose, crooning the words they remembered so well, changing them as he went on, reminding them of a cause they'd lost sight of and a hope they'd almost forgotten. Visored optics picked each mech out in term, warmth and joy shared in the gaze, and if they lingered longest and most intently on Prowl, then that was only right.

Deep inside, where they hadn't admitted it even to themselves, every Autobot knew that their officers walked a harder path than most in the war they shared. They knew that Prowl and Jazz made choices no other could in the service of their Prime. Sunstreaker's fists clenched by his side, Sideswipe gave a sharp nod, others mirroring them with gestures or murmurred oaths as Jazz's laughter banished the silence. A new resolve grew between them – a determination not to forget the lessons they'd learnt, or take for granted the commitment they'd never appreciated.

The Autobots' world changed, there in a room filled with light and laughter. And they changed too, as they listened to Jazz reclaim his song for each and every one of them, their sparks burning brighter with each loving word.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
